The tunnel dips. My shoulder scrapes the wall as I push through another tight turn.
He releases me, just for a second. Long enough to move ahead to check the path. Making sure it’s safe. Or as close to safe as we get. Then his hand is back on me, guiding instead of pulling. Controlled. Deliberate.
We move like that for several turns. Faster than we should. Longer than I think I can keep up. Until he stops. So suddenly I almost run into him.
“What—”
I cut myself off, bracing a hand against the wall, breath hard and uneven. He doesn’t answer. He’s listening with his head tilted. I force myself to be quiet. Try to keep my breathing down enough to hear past it.
Nothing.
No crashing. No scraping. No movement forcing its way through stone. Just silence that feels thick, heavy, and wrong.
“It’s still there,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t turn and doesn’t relax, but something shifts. It’s not tension leaving so much as something else replacing it.
“We are outside its primary path.”
That doesn’t sound like safety. It sounds temporary.
I swallow, pushing away from the wall and straightening slowly. My body protests. My legs feel heavier. My balance is off.
“You’re hurt,” I say, the words come out before I fully register why.
“I am not?—”
“You are.”
I step around him before he can finish, forcing the space, forcing him to face me instead of the tunnel. It takes a second. Then another. Then he lets me. That alone tells me everything I need to know, because before he wouldn’t have.
I look him over carefully until I find the source. Dark against darker and wet. Blood. Not a lot, but enough. More than enough.
“When?” I ask.
Even though I already know. The choke point. The collapse. The moment he stepped between me and that thing like it wasn’t even a question.
“It is contained.”
That’s not an answer.
“That’s not what I asked.”
My voice sharpens, not exactly in anger, but something else. Something more personal. He watches me, not defensive or dismissive, assessing before he speaks again.
“It is not critical.”
That’s better. Not enough, but better. I step closer. Close enough that I can see the cut through his side. Where something—stone or metal, I don’t know which—caught him when he moved.
“You need to sit.”
“No.”
I don’t even hesitate.
“You’re going to.”
